


I don't know what to do with myself.

by sneakypaws



Category: teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, Hurt Stiles, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-24 01:23:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6136513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneakypaws/pseuds/sneakypaws
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles accidentally kills his friends and has to suffer the consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please be kind. This is my first fanfiction. constructive criticism is welcome.

Stiles looks at himself in the bathroom mirror and doesn’t even bother to sigh. It would be a waste of the energy that he doesn’t even have. His pasty pale skin ,almost translucent, is also now shiny from sweating after he literally crawled up the stairs groaning the entire time.

His bloodshot eyes are especially red today and the bags under them are turning Ebola purple. His face is sunken in and his cheekbones sharp. He looks hollow eyed, empty, and he mostly feels like he's stumbling around as a zombie in a nightmare that he got stuck in.

His hair looks like a family of squirrels ran around in it looking for acorns and will turn into dreadlocks soon if he doesn't start running a comb through it on a regular basis. The flannel and t-shirt combo he's sporting are wrinkled and reek of alcohol from when he finally passed out last night and slept in them. He pops a few aspirin and splashes some water on his face. He smiles at himself in the mirror to see if he still can. It looks more like a grimace, doesn't reach his eyes, and he only succeeds in making his head ache more.

He finishes in the bathroom and walks downstairs to force himself to eat something.  
He may look like pigpen from Charlie Brown minus the actual dust cloud following behind him but he makes sure that the house looks the way it did when his mom was alive. He cleans the entire house every Sunday even though he lives out of the living room and only uses the bathroom and the kitchen.  
He moved all of his clothes and essentials into the bathroom closet six months ago. That way he doesn't have to go into his bedroom anymore. He hasn't opened that door in six months. The bedroom window reminds him too much of the days when Scott was alive and used to climb through it. He can't look at it now without having a panic attack.  
He opens the cabinet to grab a cup-of-soup and fills it with water.

He doesn't have to worry about his dad's cholesterol anymore. He can't bring himself to go near the produce section at the grocery store anymore.  
He blanks out in front of the microwave and when the timer goes off snaps out of it, grabs the hot container, and wonders where his mind went.  
He walks over to the couch and sprawls on top of his blankets and turns the TV up. Listening to the people on TV is the most human contact he gets on a regular basis. It makes him feel a little normal. He flips through the channels and find a marathon of Supernatural. That makes him happy since he totally ships Destiel. He finishes his soup and falls asleep during sams' devil speech monologue.

He wakes up screaming from a nightmare where the zombies of his friends try to drag him down into their graves, gets up to grab a can of Red Bull from the fridge and microwaves a cup a noodles. Breakfast of champions ladies and gentlemen. He sits on his bed which is now the couch and eats in the living room while watching a supernatural episode where Castiel is trying to understand the concept of personal space. Basically, any episode of season 6. Stiles watches another couple of episodes until the marathon is over.

This is his life now. He wakes up with a hangover, showers irregularly, eats ramen, and rides the couch for the rest of the day. If it wasn't for the insurance money he got after his father died he doesn't know what he would do because Stiles can be honest with himself. He knows he's a hot mess and that there is no way he could hold down a job the way he's self medicating.

Also, if he had any living relatives or friends he'd have been interventioned and sent to rehab by now but there's no one left. Mrs. McCall, who after everything never held Stiles responsible for the accident but couldn't handle the memories, sold her house and moved away two months ago. She'd given Stiles some pictures of him and Scott together, Scott's game consoles and the games that went with them, some of his clothes, and a hug. She'd also left the number of a therapist she strongly recommended cuz mama McCall wasn't stupid. She knew Stiles needed help she just wasn't in the position to offer it personally.

Not even the thought of how disappointed his father would be of him is enough to motivate him to get off of his ass and seek help. It just makes him more depressed if that's possible.  
Soon enough the marathon is over. There are probably a few bills in the mailbox so Stiles peels himself off of the couch, walks out the front door and stands on the front porch breathing in the chilly October air. He grabs the pack of cigarettes from his jean pocket and lights one up with his Batman zippo lighter. As he takes that first drag and feels the smoke wind its way through his lungs he looks towards the empty driveway. It's a constant reminder of everything he's lost.

His jeep, the one that used to belong to his mother and then him on his sixteenth birthday is gone. Totaled almost six months ago in the car accident that killed all of his friends and some poor women and her daughter. The police cruiser that used to share the driveway with his jeep is now being used by the new sheriff. The one appointed after his father Sheriff John Stilinski died of a heart attack. Stiles doesn't want to think about any of that. He's so tired of thinking and feeling. He just wants not to feel anything ever. It's almost eight pm and and the sun has gone down. Stiles only comes out after dark now if he can help it. Even just to go to the mailbox. It's better that way. He didn't have to see the looks of anger, hatred, and pity on the faces of people that he's known since he was a child.

His teachers, retired police who used to sneak him cookies or help him with his homework when he would visit his father at the station as a child, his neighbors who peaked at him from behind their window curtains, and anyone else in Beacon Hills who knew what he'd done.

On June 5, 2015 Stiles fell asleep at the wheel after a high school graduation party. He closed his eyes for one second and when he opened them all he saw was shattered glass and blood. He heard screaming but he couldn't move.

The screaming had come from the women in the other car. She hadn't been wearing a seat belt and flew out the window. She along with her two year old daughter who had been in her car seat died on the way to the hospital while the fire department was using the jaws of life to pull Stiles from his jeep. A tomb for his friends who had died instantly.

Scott. Allison. Lydia. Danny.

The police report which of course he read listed the women and child as Rachel and Sarah Thomas.

Stiles had been the designated driver and hadn't touched a drop of alcohol. He remembered sucking down can after can of Red Bull trying to stay awake and enjoy their last high school party when all he wanted to do was sleep. All of the stress that came with choosing colleges, studying for finals, and his recent insomnia had stiles exhausted.

So exhausted he'd killed six people.

Having been clean and sober he'd avoided jail. It was an accident. The guilt ate at him every day though. They were dead and he wasn't. It wasn't fair. Most of the time he wishes he'd died with them. He hates being all alone. But he knows he deserves it.

He gets the mail from the mailbox. Bills and junk mail are all he gets anymore. Usually.

Sometimes he gets threatening letters in the mail. The creepy kind with letters cut out of magazines and glued to paper. Those don't even upset him anymore. He just puts them on the pile with the rest of his collection. The occasional boxes of roses and maggots that someone leaves on his doorstep are weird and right out of some creepy suspense novel. He hasn't bothered to call the police about the letters or roses though because to be honest he can't really dredge up the energy to be concerned. He understands that that's not right just like he knows he's suffering from depression, PTSD, as well as survivors guilt.

He forces himself to eat and as he had no appetite he’d eaten nothing more than soup or ramen noodle and crackers for the last three months. When he bothered, it was basically a habit that he performed so he wouldn’t wither away and die. He can count his ribs and see his hipbones starting to protrude. Mostly though he drinks himself stupid and then reads or watches TV until he passes out. It isn’t like he has anything else to do. Ever. He turned down Stanford after the car accident and he doesn't have anyone to spend time with because his parents and friends are all dead.  
Once he thought he was going to cure cancer.

He often thinks about drinking an entire bottle of vodka and chasing it with a bottle of aspirin but he made a promise to his dad the night he found stiles in his room sobbing and doing just that. It was almost two months after the accident and Stiles was miserable and wouldn't leave his bed. He waited until his dad finally left him alone to go to the grocery store. He swiped his fathers whiskey and was just about to swallow the remaining painkiller prescribed to him after the accident. Of course, his father forgot his wallet and came back immediately to retrieve it when he opened stiles door to ask him if he wanted anything he saw what stiles was doing, grabbed the pill bottle, and asked if stiles had swallowed any yet. Stiles told him he hadn't had the time. The both of them ended up sobbing on the floor and the next day John called a therapist for stiles. He also made stiles promise he wouldn't do that again. Stiles intends to keep that promise even if he has to spend every day for the rest of his life coming up with reasons not to.

Today his reason for living is if he kills himself he'll have to be buried with a head full of almost dreadlocks and he just can't go to whatever afterlife he'll have looking so grungy. So instead of going all suicidal he writes his reason in the journal he uses to keep track of them. He has to come up with a new one every day. He makes himself a drink, more vodka than cranberry juice, lights up a cigarette, and curls up on the couch.  
Sometimes when he really misses his dad he drinks whiskey but at the moment on this day he's angry with his dad for making him make that promise so vodka it is.  
Tonight he's feeling particularly morbid so he picks up the picture he left lying on the coffee table of Allison lying on a slab at the morgue. It's smudged in places from where his fingers have rubbed over it. She's the dead kind of pale with cuts and scratches and caked blood all over her body. The pretty green dress she wore to the graduation party is ripped in places and stained with things that he doesn't want to think about.  
It was a gift he found wrapped in a yellow envelope and shoved under the living room door one day. He'd just come from grocery shopping. It was the first thing he saw when he opened the door. When he opened the envelope and pulled out the picture he dropped it and puked all over the floor. He doesn't know who it's from but he suspects Mrs. Argent. She was never a very stable person but after the accident she became unhinged or to put it plainly bat fuck nuts. Not that he blames her. He did kill her only child.

He's been staring at the picture so long that it begins to blur so he puts it back on the table. He looks around and the room decides to be a little wobbly but at least it isn't full on spinning. Stiles lies back on the couch and stares at the water stains on the ceiling. He feels an extreme sense of isolation like he's the last person on earth. It's two o’clock in the morning and on this street the only noise he hears are the occasional car passing by, the leaky kitchen faucet, and the bathroom toilet running.

Sometimes it's too much. He doesn't know how much longer he'll be able to live all alone in this house that was built for a family when he's the only one left. The only person he's talked to in the last two months is Benny, who owns the liquor store and supplies him with a few bottles of vodka, whiskey, and whatever pills he's selling that week, for a hundred bucks even though he knows stiles is only 18. Stiles ignores the way Benny looks at him with lust in his eyes every time he gets the energy to drag his grungy self to the alley behind the liquor store and wait for Benny to come out.  
Benny grabs at him sometimes or offers to exchange the liquor and drugs for a blow job but stiles has enough to deal with without feeling like some kind of crack whore so he refuses the increasingly volatile advances and walks home as fast as he can.

Going to the grocery store isn't much better. His appetite is nonexistent but he forces himself to eat. His current diet consists of Red Bull, ramen noodles, and whatever soup is on sale that week with crackers. He grabs at least fifteen cans at a time so he doesn't have to go back often. He hates the way the cashiers look at him. They knew him from before the accident. (Everything now is B.A or A.A., Before the Accident or After the Accident). He misses the banter back and forth about the vegetables he bought to force on his dad. They used to call Stiles when his father would try to buy junk food. He doesn't go there anymore. Not since the time he ran into Mr. Argent.  
Stiles was in the cereal isle when he looked over and caught the man looking at him. Stiles had left his buggy, ran out of the store, and had a panic attack in the alley behind the store. Now he goes to the twenty-four hour Walmart. He's lucky it's only a fifteen minute walk away.

He's afraid he'll go crazy soon because between the loneliness and the nightmares he's not getting much sleep. No matter how much he drinks he dreams of blood and broken glass and screaming. There was so much blood that he was covered in it from head to toe. He always woke up crying with the lingering taste of pennies on his tongue. A reminder of Scotts' blood spraying into his mouth. He's so tired but he doesn’t want to dream and he tries opening his eyes but they just won’t move.

Stiles wakes up to his own screams and runs upstairs. He makes it to the bathroom just in time to empty the contents of his stomach. When he's finally finished dry heaving he stands and grabs his toothbrush to clean his teeth. He doesn’t dare look in the mirror because he didn’t want to know what he looks like anymore.  
Opening the cheap clear shower curtain he turns the shower on as hot as he can stand and climbs in. He just stands there for a while letting the hot water run over him. God, he's so tired, sick, and lonely. Slowly he slides down the shower wall and he tries to stuff the feelings down but he can’t stop as one sobbing breathe leads to another. Sitting on the shower floor he pulls his legs up to his chest and rocks his body back in forth to try to calm himself. Uncontrollable sobs now wracked his body and it was getting harder and harder to breathe. He claws at his hair. “Please.” he whispers brokenly to himself.

He's having a panic attack and he doesn't have his father to help him through it. All he can think about is that he's alone.  
Alone, alone, alone, alone all alone, all his fault and now he can’t breathe. He feels like he's floating away from his body and then he doesn't feel anything at all.

When he comes to he lying on the shower floor being pelted by ice cold water. His limbs feel heavy and it takes all the energy he has to climb out of the shower. He's dripping water everywhere as he walk downstairs hands clinging to anything they can to hold himself up. After throwing on some clothing without bothering to dry himself of, he grabs a blanket and wraps himself into a cocoon. It doesn't take long for him to fall asleep.  
He sleeps until he wakes up screaming and then drinks until he passes out.

This is the life he lives for the next four years until most of Beacon Hills has forgotten about the hyper active son of Sheriff John Stilinski with the mischievous smile who sported a buzz cut and used to tear around town in a powder blue jeep with his best friend Scott and torture his father with healthy food.


	2. Give Me A Reason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles meets someone new.

Stiles is leaving a trail of water behind him as he pushes his grocery cart through Walmart. He got caught in a thunder storm while walking when he was halfway there. Four years after the accident stiles still cant bring himself to get behind the wheel of a car but he can get on a bus or ride in the passenger side of a car without having a panic attack. If he'd known it was going to rain he would have called a cab or at least brought an umbrella but oh well. Now he's wet and his clothes are sloshy, his shoes are squeaking, and his hair is plastered to his skull. He's got 10 cans of chicken noodle soup in his cart because they're on sale for 50 cents a can. 

He's sort of walking and spacing out at the same time when he crashes into something. Another cart. Well at least he didn't knock over a display like he did the last time he was here. He looks up into the glaring face of what he can only describe as the sexiest motorcycle gang member/ serial killer/male model/fallen angel to ever wear leather that he's seen in his entire life. Like stiles would totally let him do the honor of murdering him he's that sexy and stiles is just that desperate for someone to take the choice away from him and put him out of his misery. The man hasn't said anything he's just standing there scowling and his eyebrows are so incredibly distracting that stiles knows he should stop staring but he just can't look away.

Finally stiles looks at the mans eyes and he's blown away. They're beautiful. Almost olive green with shades of golden brown around the pupils. It kind of remind stiles of the picture he saw on Wikipedia that described centralized heterochromia. Beautiful eyes in an angry chiseled face. Cheeks that could cut glass are covered in sexy stubble. Lips pressed together in annoyance. A head full of black shiny spiked hair. Stiles watches as the man gives him the once over. Clearly the man doesn't like what he sees if the frown is anything to go by. Really, though compared to the leather wearing god stiles can understand why he's being looked at like something unpleasant that ended up on the bottom of this mans shiny black boots which a few years ago he would have fantasized about getting on his knees to lick them but stiles is digressing he thinks and also still a little bit high on whatever it was that Benny placed on his tongue and made him swallow. Now he's rambling in his own head. 

“I-I’m sorry. I wasn't paying attention to where I was going-” ,

Stiles says and he hates that he stutters but he doesn't really talk to people on a regular basis. The people he does talk to aren't interested in the words coming out of his mouth as much as what he's doing with it. He stares at the floor waiting for the man to throttle him or leave him be. He hopes he's giving off the I'm harmless vibe with the hunched shoulders and lack of eye contact. 

“Obviously.” The other man said with a voice you wouldn't expect coming from a face that looks like that. Stiles looks up surprised, he thought it would be sort of low and gravelly. Instead it's smooth and sexy. He rolls his eyes at stiles and pushes his cart away muttering about idiots who can't push a cart correctly. 

Stiles grabs a box of crackers and dumps them next to the cans of soup and then turns his cart around when he sees that Mr. Sour face has been joined by three other people. A beautiful women with curly blond hair, big breasts that stiles is trying not to stare at not because he's interested but because they're pretty and he just wants to look at them, another blond but this one is a man with pretty blue eyes and a cherubic face with blond curls, and last but definitely not least there is another man taller than all of them and sexy with smooth brown skin emphasized by his pearly white teeth, a nice smile and kind eyes. Stiles doesn't know what it is about them but looking at them makes him realize how lonely he is. They look like close friends. The kind that you've had so long you can have an entire conversation with facial expressions and no words.

Stiles misses that so much it hurts. 

The four of them are beautiful and they look happy and healthy. Stiles pushes his cart quickly trying to get past them without being noticed because stiles knows what he looks like. Skinny because his appetite never came back so he's still forcing himself to eat, pale because he doesn't go outside in the daytime much at all, and tired with bags under his eyes because he still doesn't sleep very well. Add drenched to that and stiles is sure he looks like a drowned rat that's carrying the black plague. As he's walking by them he see's broody killer face frowning at him and stiles tries to smile but he's sure it comes out as a grimace. He hears them talking as he finally passes them.

“Jeez Derek what's with the murder eyes.” he hears the woman ask but he doesn't look back.

“Nothing. Just who walks around in a crowded store pushing a buggy and doesn't pay attention to where there going? He ran into me and said he wasn't paying attention.”

“Derek look at the poor thing. He looks like a twelve year old someone tried to drown and he's at least twenty pounds underweight. I think you can excuse his behavior he probably has low blood sugar or mental health problems, or something. You know how you get when you haven't eaten in a while. You get all grrrrr. Someone needs to feed that boy something besides soup though that's for sure.” 

So pretty eyes is named Derek. Huh. Stiles doesn't hear the rest of the conversation because he's trying to get to the registers so he can get out of the store without running into that Derek guy again. He's almost there when he looks over and sees Chris Argent staring at him from the produce section. Stiles life is shit. Seriously. Chris looks good. Clean shaven with a $500 haircut and the clothes to match. Stiles wonders what he's doing in a Walmart. He seems like the type to shop at a high whole foods or shop online and have his groceries delivered. He doesn't look hostile though and he even gives stiles a small smile which stiles has no idea what to do with, but stiles can see the way that he looks at him, just like Derek did. 

Stiles feels like he's back at Eichen house being poked and prodded to asses his mental status. He can see the pity as it slowly morphs in the other mans eyes. Stiles nods his head at Chris and quickly steers his cart into line. 

He doesn't have panic attacks at the sight of Chris Argent anymore but he doesn't want to stick around and have a conversation with him either. It does cross his mind that the man wasn't wearing his wedding ring anymore. He wonders what happened with Mrs. Argent but not too hard because that woman has always terrified stiles. Since he met Allison in the second grade. He remembers hiding behind his mother and peaking from around her legs anytime Mrs. Argent came near him. The way her eyes used to bore into his head. The woman was intense and that was putting it mildly.

Stiles pays for his groceries, grabs his bags, and makes his way out of the store. It's late almost 11 pm but it's not raining anymore. It's hot and humid. He's walking out of the parking lot and along the sidewalk when he hears a car coming up beside him but he doesn't think anything of it because it's a busy street. It's weird though because he feels like he's being watched. He turns his head to look towards where the feeling is coming from and sure enough Mr. Murder eyes looking at him from behind the windows of a black camaro. He's not glaring anymore though and that's nice. Of course, it starts raining at that same moment. Stiles just turns away and resigns himself to being uncomfortable until he gets home but at least the camaro finally passes him and makes a right the opposite way stiles is going. 

 

Stiles eventually turns onto his block and gets that uncomfortable feeling in his chest whenever he sees Benny's car in his driveway. He regrets giving the man a key to his house. Stiles really just want to get out of his wet clothes, take a hot shower, swallow down some soup, and just go to sleep but he knows Benny has plans for stiles. He always has plans and stiles will go along with them no matter how uncomfortable he'll be because it's better than being alone but when he remembers how happy Derek and his friends looked he wonders if it would be better to just be alone. He stuffs the feelings down like he always does and uses his keys to unlock the front door.

 

 

Stiles opens his eyes and closes them quickly trying to escape the sun. He aches all over and his mouth feels cottony. He moves to go to the bathroom and has to stifle a groan. His ass hurts so bad he knows getting to the bathroom is going to be an ordeal. Benny is snoring behind him and stiles has to be careful. Benny has a temper that he doesn't bother to hide any more. It make him angry when stiles wakes him up during his nightmares or when he gets up in the morning. Stiles has enough bruises on his body right now including some he's sure that formed overnight. He can't remember what happened as usual because Benny likes to keep him drugged when he fucks with him. 

Stiles slowly rolls himself off of the bed and crawls towards the bathroom. It's a slow trek and painful all the way. He finally makes it. Now he has to stand. This is bullshit. His ass hurts, his head is throbbing, it tastes like something died in his mouth and he can't even cry in his own bathroom because he might wake Benny up and get smacked around. How is this his life? Oh yeah he makes shitty life choices and ruins perfectly good parties by falling asleep while driving and murdering people. He deserves all the pain.

The top of the sink is sturdy so stiles lifts his arms grabs onto the sink, and pulls himself up slowly. His body is shaking in pain and when he's finally standing upright he's sweating on top of everything else. 

Looking at himself in the mirror he sees blue and purple bruises covering his torso, hand prints on his arms from where he's assuming Benny manhandled him but really it could have been one of Benny's friends. One of his eyes is swollen and virulent shade of purple on its way to turning black. He feels disgusting and he wants to be angry. Wants to be a normal person who can wake up without having to wonder Who, What ,When ,Where, and Why he's covered in bruises and can't remember anything.

That time is long gone though. He's not 16 year old stiles anymore. Nope. This is walking basket case stiles. This morning it's really hard to come up with a reason to write in his journal but after careful consideration, Stiles decides that the reason he won't kill himself today is: 

“ He has to find out everything he can about sour face.”

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know if anyone is interested. should I continue?


End file.
